Watching the Days
by srusse87
Summary: A look at the pilots as they each experience a day, learning to live after the wars are over.
1. Duo's Day of Gratitude

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing does not belong to me. Alas and alack.

**Duo's Day of Gratitude**

He was sitting outside the supermarket. A broken pile of rags and garbage. Not really bothering anyone except for an occasional plea of, "spare your change?"

An old man, worn with time and life.

No one gave him a passing glance.

As I walk down the aisles, placing items in my basket, I think about him sitting out there.

At one point in my life, my options came down to two choices. Learn to steal or learn to beg. Subservience never rested well with me so I opted for a life of crime.

I was never the type to sit passively and let life do as it would with me. That's how I'd ended up in charge of the gang after Solo died, and that's how I ended up piloting Scythe. Duo Maxwell waits for nothing. In this life, if you don't take charge of your own fate, you'll be left in the dust.

But I know people who probably did end up like that man, and if this were L2, I might in fact know that man very well.

I stare at the items in my basket and ponder life's little ironies. Bread, oranges, milk, cheese and a chocolate bar. All things that are so common and necessary, yet there was a time in my life that they were only a forbidden dream. What I would have given for the things I have now. The fact that I shed blood, murdered hundreds and sold my soul to the devil himself to get where I am, does not escape me.

The past never does go away, it sticks around to haunt you forever.

They wanted me to cut my hair when I joined Preventers. I refused. To my surprise it was Wufei who stepped in to vouch for me.

"A warrior's honor is all he has to hold him to his path. Take this away and you are left with nothing more than a cold blooded killer."

Chang doesn't speak up often, but when he does you generally listen. Still waters running deep and all that. Thanks to him, they left me alone, braid and promise still intact.

Trust Wufei to be the type of guy who understands something you can't even explain to yourself.

Today my stomach is full, I have money in my wallet and a home to call my own. Tomorrow those things will still exist. And the day after that, and the day after that.

My day was nothing like that man's out there. And for that, I'm extremely grateful. Even if this makes me a little selfish.

I did my time, but I'm still paying for my crimes. Nights filled with dreams that I awake from in a silent scream. Memories that will haunt and chase me for all eternity.

I wonder what that man did, to end up where he is.

Does it really matter?

Suddenly the bread and fruit weigh heavily in my arms. Grabbing a jar of peanut butter off the shelf I head to the checkout. Holding up the line, I scribble an address on my receipt and walk back outside.

He's still there, hunched against the wall, no longer speaking but just existing.

I hand him the scrap of paper and he looks up at me, eyes defeated and without curiosity. "It's a shelter not far from here. Tell them I sent you and they'll let you in."

When I hand him the food, he gasps and clutches it to his chest tightly. "My name's Duo Maxwell. They'll take care of you."

I don't know what his story is or even if he'll go. But somebody took a chance on me once, and I can do the same.

That's why we have tomorrows, so we can start over.


	2. Heero's Day of Indulgence

**Heero's Day of Indulgence**

"Well hello handsome! Ready for this week's new flavor?"

Her name is Fay. She sells ice cream.

I passed by the building every day on my way to and from work. An ice cream shop that claimed to sell more than a hundred different flavors.

Intellectually I know what ice cream is, a simple solution of refined sugar and milk containing water, lipids, proteins and lactose. Nothing more then a basic chemical equation.

And yet.

And yet I saw people enter the little shop, faces worn from their day, and then emerge later with a smile.

I wanted to know why.

I am not in the habit of allowing myself indulgences. A life of stark commands and straight lines is deeply ingrained into my entire existence. I'm not a machine, I do have emotions, I just don't always know what to do with them or what they mean.

When the war with Oz ended, I wandered around aimlessly, attempting to find answers to questions I didn't quite know how to ask. When Relena was kidnaped, I found myself back in combat and one of those questions was answered.

I wasn't a machine, but I was a weapon.

And yet.

And yet I wanted to live my life without always killing and fighting. I wanted my skills to be used for another purpose other then death.

So I joined Preventers and found a place for myself. A place I could fight but not kill. A place I could rest and continue to ask and answer questions.

And one of those questions was about ice cream. How could something so simple make people so happy?

The first time I entered the shop I felt foolish. I was extremely aware of how little I knew and how painfully obvious it was. There were a few other customers and they all seemed to know exactly what they wanted, speaking a code I struggled to follow.

_Double scoop sundae, cherry on top._

_Banana split with hot fudge and caramel sauce_.

_A cup of cookie dough_.

_A large waffle cone with extra nuts_.

The sheer number of containers resting in the long freezer was daunting enough. The claim of more than a hundred flavors, was obviously not an idle boast.

I felt overwhelmed and I wanted to run away.

And then the woman behind the counter looked at me, smiled and called me handsome.

"Hello handsome. I haven't seen you before, what can I get you?"

I told her the truth. "I don't know."

Nobody has ever called me handsome. I've been called many things in my lifetime ranging from Heero Yuy to zero-one. But never handsome.

She watched me patiently, waiting, and I felt I could tell her and she wouldn't mock me.

"I've never had ice cream before."

And so it began. Every Sunday afternoon I come to the ice cream shop and try a different flavor. I have made certain discoveries along the way. Taste for example. I have learned that it's alright to dislike something. Eating and drinking is more then just a necessary action I need to perform for my body to function. Liver may be full of iron and protein but that doesn't mean I have to eat it. I can hate it. And I do. Not many understand why this makes me so happy.

I don't like coffee. I don't like the way it tastes. It's bitter and acidic and makes my stomach hurt when I drink it. But I love coffee ice cream. The day I tried mocha almond fudge was a good day.

The day I tried pistachio was not.

Fay's husband is called Frank. I learned that they've been selling ice cream for over twenty-five years and that they're both in their fifties with matching grey hair. When Fay smiles she has two dimples, one on each cheek. When Frank smiles he gets little bags under his eyes, he says they leave smile bruises.

Today Fay hands me a cup with a scoop of something white, purple, blue and mauve.

"It's called Tickleberry."

I look at her quickly to see if she is teasing me but she appears serious. "What's a tickleberry?"

"Well it's not an actual berry. It's vanilla ice cream with swirls of different berries in it. Can you guess which ones?"

Fay enjoys my visits and always calls me handsome. Frank calls me the ice cream inspector and says he's busy thinking of new flavors so I'll keep coming back after I've tried the first one hundred.

I'd like that.

The ice cream is sweet in my mouth and I can taste the vanilla. The other flavors are slightly more elusive, and I struggle to separate them for identification.

"Blueberry."

She nods and I close my eyes concentrating on the taste in my mouth.

"Raspberry."

I open one eye to check with her and close it again after another nod of encouragement.

"Blackberry."

She claps her hands and I smile a little. Smiling is also new.

"Do you like it?" Her eyes seem to sparkle and I realize that making people happy gives her pleasure.

Swallowing another bite, I nod. "But it's not my favorite." I surprise myself by saying this but feel the words settle inside me and know they ring true.

I have a favorite.

"Oh?"

I nod again and point further down the freezer, back to the section with the m's. "Yes. Mocha Almond Fudge is definitely my favorite."

Later, as I leave the shop, I touch the upturned corners of my mouth and understand.

Ice cream makes people happy because it feels good. Funny how something so cold can make me feel so warm inside. I look down at the scoop of ice cream Fay gave me for guessing correctly, and smile a little wider.

_Mocha Almond Fudge_.

Today is a good day.


	3. Wufei's Day of Sorrow

**Wufei's Day of Sorrow**

I have a box in which I place all of my sorrows. A lock of hair, a scrap of paper, a piece of gundanium alloy. These are my sorrows, my memories, my reminders that I survived and others did not. They all mark important moments in my life. A marriage ended before it began, the diploma that was to precede a life of intellectual pursuit, the crafted friend and warrior whom I betrayed and then destroyed in an explosion that seem to rain tears of fire.

My box of sorrow.

I watched a man die today. I didn't know him well. I felt his passing and closed his eyes and made a note to mark the time.

Man down, now gone; a life briefly held and quickly lost.

I watched as agents around me cried and swore, blood dripping and mixing with tears. I listened as they called me a cold bastard who offered no comfort. I gave no solace and accepted their anger, and ordered them to move on.

I am not an easy man. Chang Wufei is not a name associated with warmth and the close companionship of friends and family. Alliances are made and tentatively maintained.

Patience is a virtue I never had the patience to master.

We are not at war, but we still fight for peace. We take an oath to uphold that ideal and our lives are forfeit. One soul in the place of many, one spark of sadness in a sea of calm. I would give my life for the same, as that man did today.

Yet I feel their anger; I know their pain. I know what they think. I see the look in their eyes, eyes full of grief, anger, disgust, bitterness and hatred. All for me to hold and carry and accept as my burden.

I did my job.

I brought them home.

The day is done; the door is closed. Like myself, the walls have little comfort to offer.

I close my eyes and hold my breath and let myself grieve.

And then I take ink to paper, write a name I never got to know, and added it to my box of sorrow.


	4. Quatre's Day of Defiance

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing does not belong to me.

**Quatre's Day of Defiance**

It's hard at times. I sit here enduring one more endless meeting and I find my mind wandering, remembering.

The feel of Sandrock's controls in my hands. The heat of a mobile suit as it explodes. The silence of space interrupted only by my breathing. The sound of combat. The buzz of adrenalin. The confines of my cockpit. The weight of a pistol in my hands.

Memories so tangible I can almost taste them.

I live, I breath. I wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night. I exist. But it's not the same.

This is no life.

After the wars were over, I found myself settling into my father's role. An afternoon of paperwork turned into weeks of meetings which led to heading major financial decisions.

Running a large corporation wasn't exactly how I'd planned to use my strategic abilities.

But everyone had said this was my place to be. As Winner heir I was to take charge of the family business. It was my duty. My responsibility. My heritage.

More like my ball and chain.

I don't care that the company's stock is up six percent. I don't care that our competitors are forming a merger.

My fingers tap an irritated staccato on the table and I don't bother to smother the motion.

When did this happen? When did I let my life become one endless monochrome meeting after another? All I see before me are rows of black and white, shades of grey.

The vibrant image of crimson red has faded to corporate black. Some days I wake up and look in the mirror, startled to see my hair is still blonde and not a dignified silver.

I hate dignified.

I fear I'm beginning to lose my soul to profit margins and financial reports.

As I listen to the executive director drone on and on, I feel an increasing sense of anger and frustration.

This is what I fought for? This is what I shed blood for? This is what I nearly died for?

When's the last time I saw my friends? When's the last time I was even outside?

I make a decision.

The pencil clutched in my hand snaps and I stand up abruptly. The executive director trails off and all the other members of the board stare in surprise. I look around at their confusion and my irritation melts away. Instead I smile gently at them.

"Are you happy?" I ask. They remain speechless and so I sweep my arm to encompass the room and ask again. "Does this make you happy?"

One man gets up the courage to look at me and respond, "We love working with you Mr. Winner."

Disappointed, I shake my head. "That's not what I meant." Looking around I decide to try one more time, in hopes that they aren't as dead as they appear. "Are you satisfied with your life? Do wake up in the morning pleased to greet the day?"

Nobody will meet my eyes now and my heart hurts for them all.

"I don't. I feel no passion, no drive, no desire to greet each new day." I look around the room and smile at them one last time.

"I'm glad I got to work with you all. You are some of the most dedicated people I've ever met. And I'm sure you'll continue to see that Winner Enterprises succeeds in the future. But it won't be with me."

Shocked gasps meet this announcement but I'm already headed toward the door.

I'm too young to drown in shades of black and grey. I want to live, I want to die, I want each day to be filled with an overabundance of color. Maybe I really am just chasing rainbows, but from now on my days will be mine.

And I'll never wear grey.


	5. Trowa's Day of Sobriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Gundam Wing. No profit was gained in the making of this fic.

**Trowa's Day of Sobriety**

The slap stings and I wonder why it is that women always go for the face.

"It's more effective if you close your hand into a fist." I tell her gently.

The woman, Sherry, is glaring at me, chest heaving in anger and I take a moment to appreciate her nice tight package. Perfect breasts, not too big and not too small. Pert too.

"Trowa Barton, you are such a bastard!"

Voice like a shrew though.

Watching her stalk away, I shrug and head over to the bar. I've perfected this scenario with practice, fancy restaurants always have a lounge bar.

The bartender is eyeing me with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. I shed my jacket and loosen my collar before sitting on the stool at the counter.

"Whiskey. Dry."

My voice is composed and I wonder if I should be feeling anything. Hurt? Angry? I can't be bothered to strive for either and just take the drink when it arrives. The bartender continues to watch me.

"How long was this one?"

"One month, two days, twelve hours and . . . " I glance down at my watch, "thirty-six minutes."

He makes a clucking noise with his tongue and I look up at him, curious. Normally when I come here he doesn't say anything, just hands me my drinks and leaves me alone. One of the reasons I like the place. Proof that humanity really is, just one big fuck you.

Seems like you can't count on anyone these days.

"You sure are hard on the ladies. That's what, the third one since December? Love'm and leave'm, huh?"

I finish off the drink and gesture for him to fetch me another. "Who said anything about love?"

He sets the second whiskey down in front of me and shakes his head. "That's cold."

Cold? Maybe I am. The last girl I dated called me mercenary. She didn't understand why I found that so funny.

Take what I need and get the hell out. Infiltration tactics crafted for life.

Today is just like any other day.

I don't use them just for the sex, though I admit that's a large part of it. There's something very satisfying about the feel of a woman as she comes under your hands. The sound of her moans, the way she writhes and grasps, it's almost as good as coming yourself.

But if it was just sex I wanted, I could easily go out and find a prostitute.

No, it's not just the sex. And that's why the women never stick around for very long. Why I don't let them stick around for very long. I don't know what I'm looking for. Companionship? Somebody who understands? Someone to make this hole inside me not feel so vast?

Working in the circus, you come to realize that most people are only willing to see as far as the mask you put on. Nobody wants to get to know the person under the paint. They just want the show, the happy clown. And you begin to slowly disappear, until all that's left is the act and nothing more.

I'd rather be a mercenary in truth, then a fool living a lie.

So I quit.

I'm not cold, though I may be a bastard. I just want something real.

"You must love somebody. Your best friend. You have a best friend?"

The bartenders talking again and I'm tempted to finish my drink and leave but something holds me there.

"Sure." I tell him flippantly, "His names Jack Daniels." And I hold my glass up in a mock toast.

"You won't find a friend in a bottle of whiskey."

I'm amused by how emphatic he sounds, this bartender, and I smirk to show how little his comment means to me.

"You don't think so?"

"I think you're looking for answers in the wrong place. No truths to be found there."

I don't like the direction of the conversation anymore and wish he'd go away. He doesn't however, he just brings me my third glass and watches me drink it.

There are those who consider me their friend. Shallow acquaintances who know nothing about me. Women to flirt with over the water cooler or across the desk. Men to rib and trade rude comments with. All about as solid as this glass of whiskey.

Drown your pain, drown your fears.

Being honest with myself is an uncomfortable practice I try to avoid as much as possible.

What am I so afraid of?

Being alone.

Maybe that's the reason behind the women, since I'm being honest and all. Wallowing in my own-self pity. Nobody understands poor little Trowa. Just one more sad clown. All alone with no home to call your own.

Glasses four and five join the others on the bar and I line them up, silent soldiers, mocking me.

"I thought I was here to get drunk."

Who knew honesty was so sobering? I should have stuck with Sherry, at least she gave a good head.

The glasses are empty and the bartender was right. No great truths to be found there.

"You don't seem very drunk to me." He reaches over to take the glasses and I catch his arm. I've noticed something I missed before.

_Five glasses_.

I touch each one individually, counting again.

Laughter followed by swearing.

_Five faces_.

The light hits them and they glow warmly.

A newly discovered smile.

_Five names_.

Not just one, never just one.

Eyes that hold sorrow wrapped in control.

_Five friends_.

I never was alone.

The tap of fingers and an impatient twitch.

_Five_.

The whiskey might not hold any truths, but the empty glasses do.


End file.
